Hoodies and Milkshakes
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: They say the best friendships are formed without any real intent. For one pair, it was interesting from the start, and as time went on, it only got more and more chaotic...Human!Bugs&Daffy fun.
1. Intro

_Wow. Two totally different stories published within ten minutes of each other. Weirdness for me.  
This story may need a bit of explaining. For one thing, I have no idea where the heck it's going, so it will most likely be random and/or just plain crack. I'll try to fit a plot in there somewhere, but I'm testing out a style that was inspired by a Merlin fic I read a very long time ago. I would tell you which one, but I can't remember or find it online, so I actually can't. Don't worry, though, it has nothing to do with Merlin; just the same style I read. Secondly, in this fic, Bugs and Daffy are humans...Yeah, it's pretty much written itself, so don't blame me. It's fun and cute, though, I think; don't quit here!  
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, too...late, yes, but it's the thought that counts, right?_

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**Hoodies and Milkshakes**

They say the best friendships are formed without any real intent. When involving children, the forging of friendship will most likely have something to do with athlete cards or Barbie dolls; when it's with teenagers, it will most likely be bonding over basketball practice or an afternoon of shopping or some other activity where the two are free to gossip about other so-called friends; when the duo in question are adults, it will be over a discussion of work scheduling or where to take the kids on vacation or which recipe for meatloaf is the best…any of which will inevitably morph into gossip (because we all know adults really are nothing but teenagers with rights).

In any case, it usually starts with a little greeting, a "Hello," or "Nice to meet you," or "Have you heard about Mrs. Parker and the milkman? Word on the street is they've run away to Cuba!" Just a little triviality, a mostly-meaningless introduction, which gradually becomes more interesting (or in some cases, even _more_ meaningless) as the days go by.

For one pair, however, there was no triviality, no emptiness, none of those awkward getting-to-know-you phases which was the process of friendships worldwide. For them, the whole chaos they (_did not!_) call friendship was never started out as dull or meaningless or even vaguely civil, in fact; it was interesting from the start, and as time went on, it only got more and more _chaotic_.

**To be continued**


	2. Chapter 1

_Well, here we go. Chapter One.  
And I still don't know what's going on._

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**Chapter One**

Some people don't actually believe that they are friends at all, much less _best_ friends.

This is part of what makes them so interesting, perhaps, because just when you think one of them undoubtedly wants nothing else but to see the other boiled in a pot of cannibal soup or riddled with shotgun bullets, you see them out ordering a new heater or other appliance (_"I told you not to put that container on the heater, Daffy!" "I had to put it somewhere! You were in peril!" "I was playing tug-of-war with Taz!" "That dog is evil, I tell you! EVIL!"_), and you realize, with a jaw-drop of surprise, that they actually live together in a four-room apartment on Loony Melodies Avenue. Yes, the one famous for its city-shaking antics.

Still, the only two people who do not doubt their bond, and have never doubted it, from the very start a little over seventeen years ago, are Hazel and Granny, the co-owners of the diner on Pearl Unicorn Boulevard. They've been the owners for three hundred and twenty-seven years, they say, and time has not been particularly kind to either of them, most notably Hazel, who is in possession of the longest wart-hair in recorded history.

They also say the only reason the city lets Hazel and Granny keep her shop is because Hazel uses the witch-powers she got by selling her soul to hunt down villains of all degrees, whom Granny then cooks into her delicious, top-secret-recipe-made soups and pies, and that's why the city's crime rate is so low and how they've managed to stay in business for so very, very, _very _long.

(_"Are you sure it's safe to eat here?" "You've asked that question every time we've come here since we were six years old, Daffy." "Yeah, but they say Hazel's a witch. They say they cook little kids into chicken stew." "Wouldn't that make it children stew?" "They say if you don't tip enough, she'll put a curse on you. Do you _want _us to be cursed, Bugs?" "I don't think we can get any more cursed than we already are, Daff." "…Good point."_)

So it is that almost every day the corner booth at the window is occupied by two opposite friends with two identical glassfuls of something thick and cold and colorful and decorated with sprinkles and one cherry each. Because the only way Daffy is positive his dessert is _not_ made of child is if he builds it himself. And Bugs just shrugs and smirks, slightly apologetic, at Granny and lets him, because that's just Daffy, and Daffy's a little weirdo, and Bugs loves him anyway.

If you were one of the customers at Granny and Hazel's place, you would probably sit at the counter, because that's where all the good gossip floats around (and where you can get a good view of the kitchen every time the door opens up, catch a glimpse of Hazel in her long and very black dress stirring a big wooden spoon in what appears to be a cauldron, and wonder for yourself if it's really ketchup you're squirting on your fries).

So if you are a customer, you're probably just sitting there, nonchalantly sipping a glass of soda and trying not to shake at the creepy humming coming from the kitchen, and the two sitting across from one another in the corner booth are not anything special at first glance.

If it is lunchtime, you probably heard them order lunch before dessert (_"One vegetable plate, extra carrots, please, Granny, and one flounder." "Broiled, not fried. None of that funny stuff, sister."_). You'd probably note that they're both fairly young—less than thirty, surely, but not so young that they look entirely inexperienced in the world.

You'd also notice that the first one—No, no, the paler one. Yes, that one.—is slumped casually against the sticky back of the booth, and that the corner of his thin mouth twitches only slightly in response to whatever it is his companion is ranting on about in front of him. You might notice that the cartoonish rabbit ears attached to his hood quiver a bit with interest every once in a while, before realizing that whatever the other guy is saying isn't so interesting after all, and going still again.

You might also take note of the way the second one's hair—short and black and shiny—sticks off his head in every direction thinkable (and even a few unthinkable) like he hasn't combed it in weeks. (He hasn't.) His visor sits so askew on his head that you ask yourself, briefly, how it doesn't fall off with all the crazy gestures he's flapping around over there. The visor is transparent orange, and casts a most peculiar-looking, tangerine shadow across the right half of his forehead.

You can't see it, of course, because his back is turned to you, but you've heard stories. Everyone's heard stories about the guy and his pal who live on Loony Melodies Avenue. Everyone and his dog has heard stories. And most of them have experienced the stories firsthand. Only a few have stayed sane enough to tell of them, and those are only a few of the _dogs_.

Or so they say. The dogs, that is.

But they don't look all that dangerous, you have to admit to yourself. They are, after all, eating what appears to be ice cream, in a diner run by two old ladies, on Pearl Unicorn Boulevard.

(_"But come on, seriously, Bugs. Pearl Unicorn Boulevard? Are we gay or something?" "You tell me. You're the one wearing orange pants." "Your jacket has bunny ears." "You say your S's funny." "You're dethpicable."_)

Actually, they look kind of cute, in a little-boys-with-issues kind of way.

You can't stop yourself from imagining what they must have been like when they really _were_ little boys. You'd probably not get it right, though.

We've already established that most friendships start off easily enough. A seat beside them on the bus to school or a mutual hobby or something. For Bugs and Daffy, it wasn't so much a mutual hobby as it was a mutual _scheme_.

They wanted each other dead.

And no, not in a he-ate-my-candy-so-I'm-gonna-murder-'im kind of way most kids want each other dead. I mean in a literal, I'm-gonna-get-hunters-to-massacre-him-and-eat-him-with-their-bread-and-cheese kind of way.

Nobody ever much took it seriously, but for two six-year-old boys with funny clothes and even funnier nicknames, it wasn't a game. It was _war_.

**To be continued**

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_Chapter 2 is baby Bugs and Daffy cuteness, so stick around, k?  
And review!_


	3. Chapter 2

_As promised, baby human!Bugs and Daffy. So sorry it took so long. Oh! And I had a reviewer or two say they had a little trouble reading the direct quotes in the parentheses, so I separated the speakers' words more; hope that makes it easier.  
I'm really glad you all like reading it; I know I'm having tons of fun writing it. Bugs and Daffy are great like that._

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**Chapter Two**

For starters, they kept running into each other.

It wasn't because they _wanted_ to; on the contrary, if there was anyone Daffy never wanted to ever see, at all, ever, it was that dirty little rabbit Bugs. Daffy hated him, and Bugs loved every second of it, right from the start.

They met for the first time in the forest.

Bugs was visiting some of his many, _many_ family members. (_"Geez, how many of you are there? You're like a coven of rabbits!"… "Covens are made up of witches, Daffy."… "I know what I said."_) Dad, mom, five sisters, three brothers, six uncles, seven aunts (long story), thirteen girl cousins, fifteen guy cousins, seven nieces and nephews, three dogs, five hamsters, and one python wearing a bonnet (also a long story)—and that was one fraction of the family, at their casual, annual summer retreat. When there was a full-blown family reunion, they had to dig holes in the ground to fit all the kids.

Maybe Daffy was more right than Bugs let on.

Daffy has never actually explained to anyone what, exactly, he was doing so deep in the woods at the end of summer. Anyone curious enough to ask learns seventeen different ways to say _"Mind your own business!"_ Bugs might know, but every time he opens his mouth to say, Daffy claps his hand over it and hisses something to the effect of, _"Not a word out of you, rabbit."_ And Bugs lets him, because that's just Daffy, and Daffy's a little weirdo, and Bugs loves him anyway.

It doesn't really matter why one is in the woods, though, or even where one is at all, when one is being shot at.

Yosemite Sam. In a word: mad. _In every sense_ of the word.

Even now that he's chilled out and lives in a big city with other human beings, the fact that he built a tiny shack on the roof of a skyscraper in downtown and can frequently be seen sitting on said rooftop with a ten-gallon hat over his eyes and a fishing line dangling over the side to hook whatever naïve bird happens to be flapping by says enough about his way of life.

Before he moved to the city (which he did for reasons which we may or may not discuss later, depending on whether we survive through the first part of the story to get there), Yosemite Sam lived in a shack in the woods with sixteen rifles and at least three cans of beans at all times. When the delivery boy came to bring him said bean-cans, he came on horseback. Because a horse is the only thing fast enough to get away without being riddled with bullets.

Daffy loves water. It's the only thing God ever made that doesn't annoy him. (_"I hate the sun. It's too bright. It gives me headaches."…"I know it does, Daff."…"I hate nighttime, too. They turn on all those neon lights in downtown as soon as it gets dark. They don't even give us a break from the sunlight before they're flashing twenty other colors in our faces."…"I guess they just like to annoy you, Daff."…"Well, I hope they're proud of themselves. It's working. They're hateful. Everything is. It's all utterly…dethpicable; there's just no other word for it. Dethpicable."…"Want a glass of water to calm you down?"…"You know, sometimes—just sometimes, mind you!—you're not quite as dethpicable as them, Bugs."…"Thanks, Daff."_) Nothing, not sugar or alcohol or drugs (_not that he's ever tried drugs once or twice before…_) work magic on his attitude like water. It's like the miracle elixir. It's one theory of how Bugs survives living with him in a four-room apartment.

It's also one of the reasons he was being shot at. The other is because he was dressed like a clumsy duck.

Yosemite Sam had a pond behind his shack. It was the prettiest and sparkliest and fishiest pond for miles around. And a certain six-year-old with wild black hair and blacker eyes liked to play in it. He liked to play in it a lot.

Daffy's name wasn't "Daffy" then. Nobody—not even this poor, confused writer—actually knows what he was called way back then. The first time he was ever called out on the quirky trait (which was soon to become the _only_ thing he'd answer to) wasn't until his forehead banged with something just as hard and he found himself looking up into two little round pieces of the sky…_er…no, wait, not the sky…_

"What's wrong with you, you _daffy_…duck?"

Bugs' eyes were just as pale blue and his voice was just as calmly curious as it is now, but his name wasn't "Bugs" then. It was William. It was a rich boy's name; he didn't like it. Even though he was a rich boy. Still is, in fact, which is why nobody really gets his attraction for a skinny, penniless, crazy-haired, mean-spirited little weirdo. That's just Bugs, though, and Bugs is a little weirdo too, and Daffy loves him for it.

Two eyes like angry tar blinked up at his six-year-old, William self from above a sickeningly orange, plastic duck bill. From which a drop of water was in the process of freefalling, as were several more of its brothers and sisters from knotted, inky hair.

"Hey! What'th wrong with _you_? You're the one popping up out of nowhere jutht to trip me! You think you're a bunny rabbit or thomething?"

Little William-soon-to-be-Bugs blinked once at the lispy kid lying in a sopping heap in the dirt, dressed like a big, fat, ignorantly-costumed duck. And he blinked again, and never said a word as the funny, daffy duck-boy tripped off into the underbrush just before the ill-famed Yosemite Sam came crashing through the woods, demanding to know _"Which way did that blasted duck get to this time?"_

And not-yet-Bugs dropped back into his little hole in the ground and tripped him, too.

**To be continued**

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_I'm going a little deeper into their personalities in the next chapter, so I hope you'll stick around!  
And for badness sake, review!_


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